Friday, 30 October 2015

Recently, a sinkhole
opened up in a residential street near where I live. Nobody was quite sure how
deep it was. There were rumours that a postman had fallen into it, and couldn't
get out unaided. Nobody was injured. The road was closed for a few days whilst
they filled up the hole with concrete.

This reminded me of
events earlier in the year, where I had skated around an emotional sinkhole,
and had nearly fallen in.

The geological
circumstances that lead up to the formation of a sinkhole are reasonably well
understood. Rock or sand is eroded or dissolved by underground
water flows. A cavern develops underground. Eventually, the land above has no
support … and just caves in. There are rumours that this particular area was
formerly a landfill site. The houses in that street are apparently underpinned,
but that brings little comfort to those who live nearby. Sinkholes appear in
residential areas quite suddenly, and the locals had no idea that there was a
problem until the ground disappeared beneath their feet.

The situation is
similar with emotional sinkholes. I had
moved sideways within the company, into a job that turned out to be a bad match
with the things that I enjoy doing. Various aspects of the job were stressful.
I had tried for over a year to make it work, hoping that it
would get better, or that I would grow into it. And one day, I broke
emotionally: something that my kids said tipped me over the edge, I
snapped out verbally in anger, and stormed out of the room leaving those I love
frightened and in tears.

I believe I was very
lucky: this event made me realise that something wasn't right. My wife said she
had been concerned about me for a few months. I didn't know what to do about
it, but I knew I couldn't sweep it under the carpet. I met up with a good friend a few days later,
and opened up to him, not knowing what to do. "You're ill," he said.
"Go and see your doctor urgently". My doctor was crystal clear about
a diagnosis: "work-related stress, anxiety, and possibly depression".
I was signed off for two weeks.

Sinkholes have a lot
in common with emotional unhealth. My wife had seen the cracks in the tarmac, I
had ignored the signs of ground-movement, and my family had watched the earth
opening up around me. Without some dramatic changes, I knew I would fall into
the sinkhole. I was lucky to have a good friend who grabbed me as the chasm
opened up, and prevented me from falling. But I know that I stood on the edge
of that pit of darkness, and I did not like what I saw.

Around me there are
people - especially men - who see and ignore the cracks in the tarmac. Some
deny that the ground is breaking up, that there is any kind of problem, despite
the carnage around them. Others try desperately to pretend that everything is alright
when it clearly isn't. Others have been there, in the pit of despair, and they
are unable to get out. I also know people who have come out the other side. They give fleeting glimpses past the closed curtains of what it's like: a long,
dark, painful journey. Some people have had to fight depression for many years.

When my doctor
mentioned the D word, I knew that I must do whatever was necessary to avoid
going there, regardless of the cost. My
doctor prescribed rest and exercise, and I made a decision that was to most of
my friends irresponsible. I knew I had
to leave that job before it got the better of me. I resigned before I found
another job to go to. In the minds of my friends were possibly the unspoken
words "foolish", "stupid", "what about the
family". Having seen what it has done to others, I would rather they brand me with these insults than I fall into
the pit of depression.

I knew it was the
right decision. Some understood. Many didn't. I gave up trying to explain it. I
got through my notice period on adrenaline and hope. And as soon as I had left
that office for the last time, my body made absolutely sure I got some rest - I spent the best part of two weeks in bed.

I shall leave for
another time the story of how I found my new job, and why it is a god fit for
me. I shall leave for another time the difference between passion and stress.
Some day I might write about the difference between the stress of not knowing
how to pay the mortgage compared to the stress of being in the wrong job. But
let me finish today with this. Men, we need to talk more. We need to get our
frustrations out into the open, and not bottle up our feelings. We probably
need to slow down or do more exercise, but as soon as we see any kind of
cracks in the tarmac of our lives, it's time to start talking.